Deep within the sacred shadows of Angkorās temple forest, the soft rustle of morning leaves whispered of life and ancient spirits. Among the twisted roots and moss-covered stones, I came across a sight that froze me in placeāa mother monkey perched on a low tree branch, her tiny baby clinging to her side, trembling, hungry, and desperate.
His name, whispered by local guides, was Niloāa baby monkey known to many photographers in the area. His mother, once nurturing and affectionate, now seemed distant. She turned her back as Nilo squealed and reached for her chestāwhere milk once flowed but now was denied.
For reasons unknown, she refused him.
It wasnāt the first time, they told me. āSheās stressed,ā murmured a Khmer monk nearby. āMaybe danger. Maybe sickness. Sometimes, even mothers donāt know what to do.ā
But Nilo didnāt understand. His cries echoed softly through the forestāraw, high-pitched, and aching. I watched as he crawled slowly around her, wrapping his arms around her waist, nuzzling her belly. Her response was a sharp push. Not violentābut enough to cause him to fall back onto the soft dirt.
He didnāt stop. He got up. He tried again. Again she denied him.
The heartbreak wasnāt just in the rejectionāit was in the way he looked at her. Wide, confused eyes. Tiny hands pressed in prayer-like fashion. It was as if he was begging: āMamaā¦ pleaseā¦ just a little.ā
Around them, life carried on. Other mothers nursed, other babies played. But Niloāhis ribs gently showing through his fur, his head slightly too large for his small frameāwas fighting not just for milk, but for love.
I watched for over an hour.
Each time he approached, his cries grew weaker. His energy waned. He lay down at her feet for a while, staring up at the sky through the trees. I wondered if heād given up. But just as my heart dropped, he reached again.
And something changed.
She didnāt move.
Not immediately.
She looked down at himālong, hard, like she was trying to remember who he was. Maybe it was instinct, or something deeper. Maybe she remembered the day he was born just steps away from the Preah Palilay ruinsāhis first squeal in the misty dawn.
Finally, she bent her head. Not to offer milk. But to groom him. Just lightly. As if to say: āI still see you.ā
But stillāno milk.
And the forest grew quiet.
That night, I returned to my guesthouse and couldnāt sleep. Niloās face stayed with me. A baby that didnāt know why he wasnāt wantedābut still clung to hope. I asked myself: How many of us feel that way in our livesālonging for comfort, asking for love, but receiving silence in return?
The next morning, I returned.
And there he wasāstill alive, still clinging, still asking.
And thatā¦ was everything
